The sun was nearly setting, and Coe’s soul turned to beauty, and again he began to marvel at the want of womankind. No country was visible behind the river-banks; and he stood up and studied carefully the shore through his field-glass. “I think this is the spot,” he said. “Tuscumbia?” said I. But Coe was rapt in study of the river-bank. “Do you see her?” said I, louder. Suddenly Coe turned to me in some excitement. “Paddle hard--I think it’s the place.” And seizing his bow paddle he drove it into the stream so deep that had I not steadied the craft she had rolled over. Englishmen can never get used to inanimate objects; deft is not their word. So we rounded, always approaching the shore, a bold promontory; in four successive terraces three hundred feet of ranged limestone towers rose loftily, adorned with moss, and vines, and myrtle-ivy, their bases veiled in a grand row of gum-trees lining the shore. No Rheinstein ever was finer, and as we turned one point, a beautiful rich-foliaged ravine came down to meet us, widening at the river to a little park of green and wild flowers, walled on both sides by the castled cliffs; in the centre the most unsullied spring I have ever seen. And all about, no sign of man; no house, or smoke, or road, or track, or trail. “This is it,” said Coe again, as the canoe grated softly on the dazzling sand, and he prepared to leap ashore. “What,” said I, “Tuscumbia?” For there is a legend of this place; and of Tuscumbia, the great chieftain, and the Indian maiden, and their trysting by the silent spring. “No,” said he; “Sheffield. That gorge is the only easy grade to the river for many miles. Through it we shall put our railroad, and this flat will do for terminal facilities--eh!” and he leaped clumsily; for the loud report of a shot-gun broke the air and the charge whisked almost about our ears, and flashed a hundred yards behind us in the Tennessee. With one accord we ran up the ravine. There was no path, and the heavy vines and briers twined about our legs, and the tree-trunks of the Middle Ages still lay greenly, but when we sought to clamber over them, collapsed and let us to their punky middles. Suddenly, as we rounded a bend between two gloomy ravages of rock, there stood before us a young girl, in the green light--her hair as black as I had ever seen, with such a face of white and rose! I stared at her helplessly; Coe, I think, cowered behind me. She looked at us inquiringly a moment; and then, as we neither spoke, turned up the side of the ravine, with her fowling-piece, and vanished by some way unknown to us. I would have followed her, I think, but Coe held me back by the coat-tails. “Don’t,” said he. “She’s quite welcome to a shot, I am sure.” 2.